


Pick & Chose

by avengeontitan



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Bottom!Hank, Developing Relationship, F/F, Good Parent Hank Anderson, M/M, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, cole is not dead, connor is a young twink, hank is recently divorced and bad at uuuh everything, please read my very bad fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-07-04 23:32:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15851670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avengeontitan/pseuds/avengeontitan
Summary: Hank Anderson is a recently divorced father, who after many years of marriage is ready to try his hand at something new. He is definitely not Connors type- not at all.





	Pick & Chose

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic i've properly written since probably 2015 so it might be hot garbage but im enjoying writing it, so i hope maybe someone will enjoy reading it!  
> Follow me on my nasty dbh-centric twitter: @trashboblin  
> shoutout to my amazing Beta-reader and hypeman, Zach! I love you.

The club is loud, music booming from the speakers surrounding the small stage. A drag queen in insane stilletos is twirling and lip syncing her heart out to 9 to 5 by Dolly Parton, though Connor sincerely doubts that Dolly Parton could ever drop that low. Connor really likes this club, and he frequents it during the weekends, though he prefers to be on the more sober side of fucked-up. He never knows when he needs to keep his wits about him. One of his main reasons for coming here is that it’s the perfect place to pick up guys. He generally prefers people around his age, although he prefers them a lot more rugged than himself. Men who looked like they would break his wrists if he squirmed too much.

Connor’s phone buzzes, and he fishes it out of his back pocket, careful not to drop it on the slightly sticky floor of the club. His screen flashes with a notification from Markus. He opens the texts and mutters a string of curses. Sorry, can’t come have to help Dad with moving some art -Markus. Connor shoots back a message where he is careful to both compliment Markus on probably being the best son in the universe, but also call him an asshole twice for bailing on him. Connor understands, of course. Markus’ dad is wheelchair-bound, and Markus is a human being with a conscience, so obviously he’d help.

To Connor’s surprise, the club isn’t entirely packed. Seeing as it is a Friday, he would have expected more packs of obnoxiously straight girls on the prowl for a gay best friend/pet, and just more people in general. There are maybe fifteen people on the dance floor, and there's nobody who immediately catches Connor’s eyes. He sighs into his drink. Not only is Markus not coming, but it doesn't look like he’ll get laid tonight either.

He’s just about to put his (now empty) glass back on the bar when he spots a figure sitting on one of the tables by the wall, as far as away from both the entrance and the dance floor they could possibly get. Both of their hands are curled around a single glass of beer, which is half drained. The beer just solidifies how absolutely out of place this guy is. The beer here is absolute garbage. He’s staring at the dance floor, and from a distance Connor is seriously wondering if this guy could be someone’s overly supportive dad.

Connor decides since Markus is a no-show, he has to make his own fun. He orders two Blue Hawaiis and makes his way over to the man in the chair. When Connor slides into the seat in front of him, the man looks scared shitless, and he doesn't seem calmed when Connor slides him one of the giant, bright blue drinks. Up close, Connor can now see the other man’s face clearly. He’s maybe in his late fifties, with unkempt hair, and tired eyes. He is as far from Connor’s type as he could possibly get, but he looks uncomfortable and worried. Connor has always had a soft spot for people who need help.

“So, I'm going to make the wild assumption that you haven't been here before.” Connor says, leaning forward on his elbows to suck some of his drink through the straw. The other man looks taken aback, before he looks down to his feet with a chuckle. “That obvious, huh?” Connor leans back, and smiles. “It’s not a problem, you just looked extremely uncomfortable.” He shoves the drink further towards the older man. “It’s not going to kill you, and it’ll sure as hell will taste a lot better than the piss they’re trying to pass off as beer around here. I’m Connor, by the way.” He says, reaching out over the table for a handshake. “Hank, Hank Anderson.” The handshake is surprisingly firm, and Connor is surprised to see a ring on one of Hank’s fingers, although he decides not to comment on it. It is firmly none of his business.

“See, that's one of your problems, Hank Anderson,” Connor starts, smiling, “Around here, people usually don't give out full names.” Hank raises an eyebrow in question. “It’s just not normal.” Hank scratches the nape of his neck, chuckling quietly. “Sorry, I guess you can say I'm quite new to, uh, all of this?” He gestures vaguely to the whole club. “No shit, Hank Anderson.” Connor laughs. “How new?” Hank sighs, and finally takes a big gulp of his drink, ignoring all the straws that poke him in the face. “I got divorced a few months ago, so I haven't really been on the market in, about twenty years?” Connor nods, understanding. “It's hard to get yourself back out there.”

He’s eyeing Hank over with a new perspective now. Although he’s not Connor’s type, Hank is not unattractive. He’s broad-shouldered underneath the bowling shirt he's wearing, and he has big, strong hands. Connor can see some chest hair peeking over the slightly open collar of his shirt, and Hank has definitely got some strong arms hidden underneath his ratty old jacket. “You just gotta put in a little work, Hank. If you do that, I'm sure there are plenty of guys who would claw each other’s eyes out to get to you.” At that, Hank nearly chokes on his drink, spending the next few seconds attempting to cough out what sounds like a whole lung.

“You really think so?” Connor shrugs, taking another sip of his drink. “I mean yeah, there's plenty of guys who love older men-” Hank shoots him a dirty look. “Hey, I said _older_ , not _old_. How old are you, anyways?” Hank chews on his lips for a second before replying. “Fifty..” Connor sits up straighter, “See, that's not that old, and you've got a kinda bear-ish look going for you with the long hair and beard. There are plenty of guys who are super into that! You just have to learn to use it to your advantage. Do you know how to flirt?”

The silence that follows gives Connor enough of an answer. He rubs the bridge of his nose, feigning annoyance, while in reality enjoying the hell out of this whole situation. Hank chugs the rest of his drink, slamming the empty glass down on the table. He wipes his beard on his sleeve and fixes his eyes on Connor. “Got any tips?” Now it's Connor’s turn to chew on his lips, thoughtfully. “Honestly, I think you should lean into the gruff vibe you’ve got. Be a little rough with people.” Hank looks taken aback, and Connor suddenly feels the need to backpedal. “Or not! I mean, how would you usually talk to someone you’re interested in?” Connor leans back, spreading his arms out. “Pretend I’m some hot stud you want to take home. What would you say to me?”

Hank leans forward on his elbows, giving Connor a soft smile. “So, Connor, uh, what do you do for a living?” Connor sighs, letting his arms drop to his sides again. “Ok, so, first of all. Nobody wants to talk about their job with someone they’re just trying to sleep with.” Hank’s brow furrows. “Why not? It’s a good place to start, see if you have anything in common.” Connor can’t help but smile. Fuck, this guy is old. “Ok, let me turn this around on you,” he decides. “What do you like to do, Hank Anderson?” Hank thinks for a moment. “I like hanging out with my dog, going on walks in the park-” Connor has to resist the urge to slam his forehead down on the gross, sticky club table.

“Hank, listen. If you ever want to get laid, ever again, you have to learn how to speak like a goddamn human being.” Hank pulls a face, looking like he’d rather spend the night doing literally anything else. “You’ve gotta learn to let people know what you want. I got sucked off in the bathroom of this very club without exchanging a single word with the guy! We just danced for a while before he pulled me into the toilets. That’s how things work around here.” Realizing how horrified Hank looks, Connor sighs. “It doesn’t have to be that forward, it’s just an example.” The queen who’d been working her ass off on the stage for the last fifteen minutes was apparently finished, leaving the stage to a bunch of hollering gays who were having the time of their lives. Connor spins around on his chair, surveying who was coming on next, and as the music started booming without anyone stepping onto the stage, he turned back to Hank.

“Listen, people are going to start dancing for real around here soon, so use that as an opportunity. Try to see if anyone catches your eye. Although,” Connor makes a point to eye Hank over one last time, “...maybe don't dance, old man.” Hank looks too worried to be insulted. “You’re leaving?” Connor nods. “I have a bottle of 19 Crimes waiting for me in my kitchen, and a season of Golden Girls on dvd. There's better things for me out there.” Hank seems terrified at the prospect of being left alone at the club. “Listen. You can do this.” Connor puts both his hands on Hank’s shoulders, staring into his eyes. “Hank Anderson, you go get that ass.” He pats Hank on the shoulder before walking towards the exit, feeling Hank’s eyes on him the whole way out.

That night, Connor struggles to fall asleep. He did end up drinking the entirety of the 19 Crimes wine by himself, but he can’t help but worry about that old guy from the club. He rolls over, and has to curse himself for a second before the universe stabilizes again. Reaching over to his nightstand, he unplugs his phone, before rolling back onto his stomach. Propping himself up on his elbows, he unlocks his phone and opens Facebook. Hank Anderson. He has to scroll for a bit before finding a profile that looks vaguely like the man he met at the bar, though the tiny picture makes it hard to be sure. He clicks the profile, and is suddenly hit with a wave of realisation.

_Oh no._


End file.
